The Devil and King John, page 7
“Here, Marshal,” he cried, “is proof that men lie who say I plot against my brother. In his name, I command you all, and I command that the chancellor be at this bridge tomorrow morning. I give him that time for his prayers. He comes tomorrow, or we fight!”
*
But John was too cunning a general to squander time. He sent men-at-arms to London, through Staines, as if to meet the chancellor. Longchamp had barely ridden from Windsor when he heard. Immediately, he called his men to follow him to London. It was a race for the capital, the chancellor, like a monkey in armour, chattering under his bascinet; and near Hounslow, he met John’s troop, and they fought. John’s justiciar, Roger de Planes, was in command, and he was slain as he charged whooping and whirling his axe.
Longchamp made straight for London, John swiftly behind him, but the citizens had no love for the chancellor. They jeered as he locked himself into the Tower and they welcomed John as a deliverer when he entered the gates. In his shirt of steel, with the sword slapping his horse’s side, John raised his gauntleted hand in greeting. His stern face did not reveal the joy he felt when through crowded streets he rode with his army, drunk with the shouting as from windows, from roof-tops, the people waved and called to him: men and women of London, bright-eyed girls, red-faced now as they clapped their hands and laughed: John noted the girls particularly.
But there was work to be done, and too often in his life had pleasure sapped him of will. He must be strong, like his father. In Paul’s, next day, the barons renewed their resolution to depose Longchamp and in Richard’s name granted the Londoners’ dearest wish, they made the city a commune; and in return, the Londoners voted Longchamp’s deposition and elected Walter of Rouen in his place, while John was made chief governor of the kingdom with control of royal castles. Then all, including John, took the oath of loyalty to Richard; after which a similar oath was taken by the others to John, saving their fealty to the king, and he was acknowledged heir to the throne should Richard die childless.
What more could John desire? Yet as he lay that night in bed in Westminster Palace, listening to the river outside his window, he tossed unsatisfied. As the taste of wine brings craving for more wine, and the kiss fires a lover to fiercer kissing, John lusted for greater power. Chief man of the realm he might be, yet he was not king while his red-headed brother swung his axe in the Holy Land and might any day return. Then all would go, and John would find himself again merely the loved brother treated with affectionate contempt while all men bowed to Richard. The thought was unbearable, and he writhed beneath it. He could not surrender his glory, could not calmly give back to Richard that which Richard himself despised, this lilied crown of gold. Richard was a warrior, only happy with axe or sword in hand, then let him stay in Palestine butchering heathens to the glory of God and leave kingship to his brother.
Through gritted teeth, John swore to defend what he had won.
*
Longchamp was sent from England, John refusing his bribes, and then fretfully John awaited his chance while Philip returned from the Holy Land. Philip but not Richard. When news reached him of the French king’s return, John sat back in his chair, white and shivering, until he understood that he came back alone. The fool was still slaughtering pagans, while his enemy was home. That enemy was soon in touch with John, suggesting that he marry Philip’s sister Adela, whom Richard had refused because she had been their father’s minion.
Adela! John smiled at the monk who brought the tidings. Pale-faced Adela with glossy black hair and little bones. She had been ever seated at his father’s feet, like the child she was, and had been always gazing in worship at her royal seducer who in his turn worshipped her with an old man’s hunger for youth, for the young body that might renew his withering flesh. To have his father’s mistress for wife! Richard had spurned her with disgust, yet, John remembered, she was a sweet child, and somehow, to take his father’s mistress, would be to usurp the old man’s power, to defy him in the bed of his love. Would he not be his father’s equal then, clasping his love and his throne? But disgust crinkled his skin at thought of her mouth, for the kiss is most sacred of rights, the one gesture of both mastery and submission that can never be counterfeited, from which even strumpets turn their heads on the couch. But there was no need to kiss her. Uncountable women were imploring the honour of his caresses. He never kissed Hadwisa nowadays, why then should he bother about Adela? Ay, he would do it, he would divorce Hadwisa — were they not within the forbidden circle of consanguinity? — and marry Adela.
“I will do it,” he said, and stood to his feet.
All must be secret, for should the barons hear they might think it treason. Therefore John idled while preparing to sail to France, and just as all was ready, ships waiting at Southampton, Queen Eleanor landed at Portsmouth and the barons rode swiftly to give her homage. John had to ride with them, had to mask his anger as he bowed and kissed her hand in the castle where she rested.
“We would be alone,” she said, and ladies and courtiers and barons bowed away from her until, beside the fire, in that great shadowed room, there were none but herself and John. And John felt dangerously isolated and small as he lifted his hands to the fire in the great hearth in the centre of the floor, and tried to smile at his mother. She did not smile back at him. She sat upright in the throne-like chair and gazed at him as she had often gazed when he had been a child; and he felt as if he were still that child, helpless before an omnipotent parent who knew each secret thought.
“Well, mother,” he cried at last, and laughed, “it is good to have you here again in England. I thought perhaps you’d skip to Palestine to romp with the blackamoors as in your youth.”
But she did not respond with her usual smile. “I am old, my son,” she said gravely, “and such jests weary me.”
Not when Richard spoke them … never then, thought John …
“I am old,” said she, “and with age one sees things small and very unimportant that seemed tremendously significant in youth. Only few virtues do we come to prize, and loyalty is greatest of them.”
Loyalty? You who would have cuckold his father and stolen his throne — how could you speak of loyalty, mother? … But John could not look at her nor speak his thoughts. He gazed into the fire and sucked his lip.
“Your brother loves you, trusts you, and yet I hear, now that he’s far off, fighting for God, you conspire with his enemies.”
“What liar told you that?”
“I feared it the moment I heard that the French fox was home, deserting Richard when Jerusalem was almost within reach of their spears. And I have been given proofs. You killed your father, child, would you kill mother and brother, too?”
“My father! Why do you say it, why did Geoffrey say it? Richard did nothing, I suppose? nor you whom he locked in England because he feared your plots? It was not Richard, eh, who chased him from Le Mans and would have slain him with his own parricidal hands had not William’s spear stood between them? No, it was poor John who fought beside him to the last — he was the murderer? I’ll not have it.”
“Richard fought in the open, but you traitorously put your seal to your villainy.”
“What would you have me do when he was dying — suffer Richard’s vengeance? I did what any man would do.”
“Not a loyal servant … But we’ll not talk of the past. It is of the present I speak, and of your plots with Philip. You would marry Adela, I hear, your father’s trollop?”
He caught his breath and winced. How had she learned of that? were there traitors everywhere?
“It is a lie,” he cried. “You know how Philip ever lies to break love between us all.”
“Not only that, my son. But Longchamp’s been meddling with you too, I hear, five hundred pounds was his offer to be made chief justiciar again.”
“Lies! Lies!” Traitors were everywhere; one could not trust a whisper to one’s pillow. Who had told her that? Yet it had been but an idle thought, never really intended; nevertheless she had heard: how? “Lies, I tell you!”
“That,” said Eleanor, “I leave to your conscience, my son, but argument is useless. With my authority as your mother and as queen, I forbid you to leave England.”
“I am no longer a child!”
“In many ways, my son, you are. You will not go abroad.”
“I will! Why should I be treated like this, never allowed a thought of my own. I’ll go wherever I wish.”
“Would you have me use my authority and publish your infamy? I warn you, John, if you leave England, you leave for ever. I will have your lands taken from you, you will be left penniless and alone.”
“You dare not!”
“I dare and I will.”
He stood helpless before her while his body writhed. Like a maniac, he glared at her, but Eleanor, who had known his father’s madness, was not afraid. Sternly, she watched him, then rose slowly to her feet.
“Remember, John,” she said, “you will not leave England.”
John almost threw himself into her empty chair when she was gone, and sat gasping and biting his nails while he glared at the rain beyond the window. He was glad she was gone, fearing he might have murdered her. She had twisted his ambitions. He did not intend, he swore it, to steal Richard’s throne, merely to rule while he stayed abroad, to hold the power lest Richard be killed suddenly, so that he could crush any threat from Arthur’s friends. Had he not discovered Longchamp plotting with Scotland to have Arthur recognized as heir to England? If he remained idle, let his enemies steal what they liked, one day there would be no Plantagenets to rule, and Richard would sail back to find his heritage gone. No, John swore it, he was guarding his brother’s realm, he was loyal.
*
But he could convince no one save himself of his loyalty. His mother and the justiciars watched with suspicion, and their doubts maddened him. It seemed that they were would drive him into treachery. The royal castles had been promised him in London, but now they would not surrender them. He pleaded, argued, but the barons shook their heads.
“It had not been sworn to,” said William the Marshal, “they will be held in trust for the king.”
“Who better to hold them than the king’s brother?”
But the barons shook their heads: anybody rather than the king’s brother, they told him with their eyes.
Therefore John acted. He treated with the custodians of Windsor and Wallingford, and soon the keys were in his hands and his retainers strode the battlements. This defiance brought the council angrily together and John was summoned to attend, but he had made certain that more important matters would obsess them. Longchamp had written, asking for help, and John had told him to land and trust to God. And now he was again in England, sending bribes from Dover, and asking that he be tried by the Curia Regis.
In desperation, the council sent for John while they argued with Eleanor, who sided with Longchamp as Richard’s chosen representative.
*
John was making merry at Wallingford, awaiting their summons, laughing at their conventicles. Messengers came, sweating from hard riding, and implored him to hurry to London. John smiled and drank and grinned at his friends.
“Too wet to go out,” he said and gestured at the horn-paned windows down which rain flooded, and grinned at the puddles at the messengers’ feet. “I have a fever in me and dare not stir abroad. More wine, boy.”
He drank and jested with comrades. It was warm in the castle while rain clashed on the horn of the windows. March with winds had come, and it twisted the rain, spat it viciously to bounce on the earth. He would be drenched, he said, he’d not go out.
He knew that every minute he kept the council fretting raised his own value. They’d not dare move for fear he was in league with Longchamp. They had bullied him for years, chaining him in England, threatening to take away his honours if he so much as spoke his mind, refusing to give him the castles they had promised. But now he had them in his power, and would squeeze without pity. His debts must be paid, his castles given him.
But he knew he must not drive them to despair. When he had savoured the full sweets of triumph and their messengers had become almost servile, he sighed and put the wine-cup on the table.
“I have a fever in me,” he said, and ostentatiously shivered. “But my flesh is ever the servant of the council. Should I die, it is for England’s sake.”
His horse was ready saddled and he called for his boots and cloak and hood. The boots were of soft grey leather with red turn-over tops, and his cloak of vivid blue reached to below his calves, as blue also was his hood. He took his whip and drank a last cup of wine and he smiled as silently he toasted his mission.
Eleanor would find him no longer a child.
*
They sprang to their feet when he entered, and he sucked in his lips to keep from smiling.
“My lords,” said he, loosening the cord that held the cloak over his breast so that it slid to the floor from which a servant swiftly seized it to carry to the fire; he took off his hood in very leisurely fashion and tossed it to a page. “My lords, I rode with all speed, but have a fever that detained me. The matter must be urgent that calls me from my couch.”
“Most urgent, your grace.” William the Marshal left his chair and went to John, uncertain how best to speak to this impetuous prince. He could never understand John’s moods, his fickle humours, and hoped always to strike a core of honour which, he did not doubt, was in most men. “Longchamp is back, as you doubtless know, and wants his deposition argued in the Curia Regis.”
“What of it?” John shrugged. “All men deserve justice.”
“My lord, you were with us, our leader, when we took him from office. You too suffered from his tyranny.”
“Yet he was my brother’s choice.”
“Your brother needed money for the crusade. It was not so much his choice as his needs that prompted him to elect Longchamp. And did he not send the Archbishop of Rouen here with powers to depose him, as we did? All was legal, your grace, as you know, and agreed at the time. If we argue with him now, and if by some trick of law we have him over us again, it will bring anarchy to England; and there is always France waiting its chance.”
“What would you have me do?” asked John carelessly.
“We in council have agreed that Longchamp must be expelled. Only your word is needed and then we will act.”
Slowly John smiled, and from the Marshal’s stern face, gazed at the barons, at the prelates at the table, and at his mother watching him with angry speculation. They had chided him like a boy, and now they begged his aid.
“My lords,” said he at last mockingly, “and my revered mother the Queen, do you think the chancellor will either fear your threats or beg a favour of any one of you — nay, of all of you roped together — if he can but have me for friend? Nay, nay, sirs. Why, within the next seven days he’s to give me seven hundred pounds solely that I may not meddle between you and him. You realize that I need money … I have said sufficient for wise men to understand.”
He bowed, and turning on his heel, strode from the chamber. And in the antechamber, he stood perfectly still while he regained his breath, for it seemed to him he was suffocating. For the first time in his life he had been truly strong. He had not flinched before his mother’s frown or the sad pleading of the Marshal. He had proved his manhood.
Suddenly he realized that he smiled and that pages and soldiers watched him curiously. He must learn to mask his feelings, but the wretched body betrayed him, curving the mouth to a smile, making the legs tremble, bringing sweat to his forehead, and sometimes, when his will was badly thwarted, flinging him into spasms of lunacy. He must keep a tighter bit upon himself.
With an assumption of nonchalance, he strolled to the brazier of charcoal and warmed his hands while he waited, and every passing second itched his impatience. At a footstep he looked up, at a whisper nearby he turned. What could they be arguing? Surely they could not refuse? And if they did … he would not act the traitor, he would but take Longchamp’s gold and lock himself away. But they could not refuse. They were desperate.
John himself was so quickly swayed that he doubted the decisions of others. He doubted even himself. So long had he been Lackland that continually he had nowadays to repeat to himself that he was Count of Mortain and heir of England. He must have them swear to that before he left. They must name him Richard’s heir and swear allegiance. But he could not sit still. He set his teeth and paced the floor, kicking the rushes that, with the dead ones beneath, were like a thick carpet, and stank sweetishly.
It yet rained, but the torrent had trickled to a thin mist that clouded earth and sky and seemed to steam sluggishly from the river. He heard men shouting in the yard below, but could not see them, heard rowlocks whine, but could see no boat. With the passing of the rain, mists came like smoke.
And this concealing of the earth, of men, isolated John. The people talked and laughed but he could not see them. His greatness isolated him. These were the people of England and in him was their trust. He swore now never to betray that trust. When he ruled, if he ruled, he would be truly king of the English. On his royal word, now he swore it.
He heard steps behind him and set his teeth but did not turn.
“Your grace,” said a page’s voice, “the council awaits you.”
Now, at last, he would know. He took a deep breath to still his heart, and his face, when he turned, showed no anxiety. As if to a casual meeting, he strode into the council chamber.
*
They rose when he entered — all save Eleanor — and he bowed and waited.
It was Walter of Rouen who spoke. William the Marshal sat moodily staring at his clenched fists on the table.
“We have agreed, your Grace,” said Walter in a low voice. “We shall reward you with two thousand marks from the treasury if you will seal this writ.”
